First Steps
by Arithanas
Summary: SUMMARY: First year of the life of Raoul de Bragelonne. Grimaud POV. DISCLAIMER:Dumas and Maquet's works are public domain.


**Title:** First steps

**Rating:** General  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Is this really necessary? Dumas 20 years time gap is fair playground.  
><strong>Synopsis:<strong> It is 1634-1635, Blois. Life in Bragelonne will never be the same once one little person becomes part of the family. Grimaud POV.

One day in October of 1634, life as I used to know it ended. My master had taken his horse and left home as he used to, just like that, without warning to anyone. Not that it really mattered. Those days I was the only one at the château and had my share of hard work to do: there were many caskets with silverware, household linen and furniture to place in our new home. Charlot and his wife were on the road and they were expected soon. M. le comte returned late at night, and he was burdened with a wriggling bundle wrapped in fine linens. His expression was undaunted when he handed it to me before saying with an even voice:

"This is Raoul," he stated and averted his eyes from me, as he was used to doing when he was about to confide something to me. "He is my son, take care of him, I shall take care of the horse."

And he went to the stables, while I remained there, stunned.

He had issue, I could not believe it. He called this child the name of his own father, and I was worried: my master loved his father as if he was a heathen deity roaming among humans, but at the same time, he was the only man that ever terrified him. That name was a terrible burden to encumber a young boy with.

I examined the baby, he was awake, and was chewing his hands as if he was hungry. The poor thing seems so sad, like he was missing someone. This young one needed his mother, for I knew that M. le comte would never know how to take care of him; and I would not burden myself willingly with that responsibility, my hands were full from waiting on _him_.

That same night I spoke my mind to him, recognizing that either that it would either be my last night working for him or my last night alive . It was unpleasant, but at least, it was just the two of us.

Over the next few days, my master took particular care of his child's room: every surface had to be completely smooth, every linen had to be pristine for that baby boy that seemed to be the light of his life. Neither Charlot, nor his wife nor even I, could comprehend the strange transformation that had overcome him in those first months since the baby's arrival.

Since the first day, M. le comte insisted on the fact that the young Raoul should only be fed by his own hand, as if he was training a young hawk. He left all other cares to Charlot's wife, who was happy to comply since she had no children of her own and that was her only regret; my master had tried to lessen her burden, not out of the kindness of his heart but for the selfish pleasure of keeping her cooking, and had taken on his ward two other youngsters: Olivain and Blaisois. As the time went by, I started to feel the same attachment to Blasois as my master felt for his Raoul, but that is a story for another day.

The first month was hell on earth, as one could expect when an infant turned out to be a sudden addition to a mature bachelor's life. The turmoil was not directly provoked by the boy, who only cried when he was hungry, and he was not hungry often. It was because my master was used to drinking more than three bottles of fine wine a day and overnight he decided to curtail his consumption. He did not withdraw completely from it; he was too clever to bring the devils over himself, but each day he would drink less. At first, I was really wary, because M. le Comte had always loved his wine as this baby loved his sleep: if he did not have it, he would be really cranky, and, well... he got annoyed, but he retained some control and no one was killed in the process.

Then, three months after his arrival, my master ordered me to take "his boy" to the salon, and let him play with his toys in his presence. Young Raoul had accumulated a lot of toys, as we servants, especially Charlot and his wife, have grown fond of the baby, and had contributed to his collection. They were simple, peasant toys, some cloth balls filled with seeds and some old leaking bowls that he could pile up, but M. le comte approved of them. The mere fact that he allowed Raoul those toys made me wonder whether he only did it to keep us happy.

My master was a firm believer in the old proverb that stated children should be seen and not heard; and Raoul was a fast learner. The first time he became fussy and started to cry, M. le comte ordered him to be sent the kitchen with Charlot's wife and I knew that while M. le vicomte loved Charlot's wife, he without any doubt hated the hot kitchen. The scene needed to be repeated several times but soon the idea became clear to him: if he was silent, he could stay in the warm salon and he could be watched by his food-giver. So, he spent long afternoons seated in this father's presence, playing silently until it was time for him to take his bottle and to go to his crib.

As winter ended, while Charlot and I, were busy shoring up the roof beams and trying to keep M. le comte from climbing the structure to assess our work, he adopted the habit of whittling some spare chunks of wood. I grasped he could not be idle, and that it was part of his nature to subdue every material, person and circumstance to his wishes, but this new quirk seemed so inappropriate: he was not one with an artistic disposition.

Later, one March night, while he was placing one of his pieces in the salon, and the baby was playing on the floor, he let his hand land flat on the table to call my attention and, absentminded, he made the sign to order me to fetch him a bottle of wine. I obeyed, as usual, and brought his bottle and a glass for him to drink. I was about to leave when I felt his eyes, as if he were calling me. I turned around to see what he wanted, I met his gaze and he signaled towards the baby with a quick glance: young Raoul was repeating the order in a very clumsy, but comprehensible way.

"What is the matter, Raoul?" he asked giving the boy his complete attention. "Do you want this bottle?"

The baby signaled 'no' with his head, and something in his expression reminded me of his father, there was some innate stubbornness in him. I saw my master rise and kneel down before his boy, with a smile on his face. I had seen that smile before: it was the smile that he used to give to M. D'Artagnan. He extended his hand and, God is my witness, I saw his hand tremble before he used it to caress the little angel's face.

"Don't you see, Grimaud?" he asked me, all absorbed on his contemplation. His voice did not betray any emotion. "M. le vicomte is requesting _his_ bottle..."

I went to fetch the silver cup that he used to feed the boy. It was a rich pear-shaped bottle with a metal teat, it was engraved with the arms of La Fère and, long time ago, it was used for feeding my master when he was a baby himself because I can attest that Madame la Comtese was not the maternal type of woman. Charlot's wife had it ready, because she was aware of the child's feeding schedule; I took it and returned to the salon.

As I approached, I heard my master's voice, it was soothing, almost cooing. I thought I was mistaken. Anyone that had known him could be positively aware that he was neither the most talkative nor the kindest man on Earth, but here he was, talking in sweet tones to his boy, who I was sure could not answer him. I could not stop my steps and soon I was at the lintel. M. le comte was siting in one chair, Raoul was on his lap.

"Here, Raoul, take... I made it for you...," he said handing the baby a piece of whittled wood that vaguely resembles a horse. As every other child, Raoul examined it with a covetous glee. "Do you know what it is?"

"Bow wow!" Raoul responded promptly.

I was trained to be silent, but if I had not been I would be speechless, both from the child's words and my master stunned expression. He was completely taken aback by this unexpected response.

"It is a horse, Raoul," he tried to correct, as sometimes he did with M. Aramis.

"Bow wow," the boy repeated a little slower this time as if he was trying to make the obstinate adult comprehend that he knew what kind of animal the figure represented.

Everyone in the château knew better than to upset my master: the consequences could be really... unpleasant. To my surprise, M. le comte just smiled and caressed that brown head covered with curls.

"As you wish, Bragelonne..."

I was sure I had a fit and did not notice it until the voice of my master called me out.

"What are you waiting for, dim-wit?" he asked me in his usual tone.

From that night on, my master took the boy wherever he went, amazed at his boy's growing signal vocabulary and grinning at his sparse words. Sometimes, when it was necessary to attend to some bare necessities, it seemed almost painful for him to hand the boy over. Raoul became even more attached to him to the point that if my master tried to leave a room without him, he started to wail, completely devastated; it took some time, but my master found a solution and I became the vicarious comfort for the lad, because M. le comte never abandoned the state without me, thus the youngster was reassured that he would return to his side.

To fulfill this new obligation, it was enough to watch him crawl and play. I was not required to allot him the tender cares that his father gave him, although sometimes I did, and Raoul was grateful for them. He twinkled at me and would start to cry if I attempted to leave him under Charlot's watchful eyes. It was sure luck that M. le comte seemed to be bewitched by his baby boy and never abandoned him for a long time.

By the first frosts of 1635, Raoul was groping all the furniture in the salon, trying to steady himself in the standing position, albeit he had not yet gathered the boldness to try his first steps. One day, as I entered the salon with an armful of firewood, M. le comte signaled me to stay with the boy because the house was imbued with the sweet aroma of egg nog. I nodded, and made a note to myself to visit the kitchen. Raoul was standing next to my master's favorite armchair and signed "hello" to me. I returned the greeting and tended the chimney.

I did not know why, but while I was poking the fire I felt the pressing need to double-check on Raoul, and I turned my head and saw him take his first hesitant step. His face was too concentrated, and his brow was knitted, as he extended his arms to keep his balance. The young viscount must have felt my gaze, because he stopped his movements and faced me, as if inquiring for confirmation of his success.

"Good." I said and extended my arm. "Come."

His face lit up and he took another step, more confident this time. At that precise moment, M. le comte appeared at the door with a steaming mug of nog and Raoul diverted his attention from me and saluted him with an elated cry.

"Dear God..." I heard him whisper, and saw him put the mug on the floor, as if he was afraid of dropping it.

Raoul saw me, prideful, but his concentration was divided, he tried to move to me but his feet tried to take step towards my master, and then he tried to walk to my master, but extended his arms in my direction. He looked as if he was the youngest drunkard of Blois. This could not last and he felt on his diapered ass, blaring cries of protest and frustration at his failed attempt. I tried to help him but M. le comte was faster, he ran to the boy and picked him up, eager to praise this attempt and to console him in his failure. When the cries ceased and the tears were wiped, M. le comte handed me his boy and knelt some distance away.

"Put him on the floor, Grimaud" he ordered me and then smiled to the boy and said, "Come, Raoul, I want to see you walk..."

I squatted and supported the boy until the lad understood that the words and the signal he was given meant that he was asked to perform his new feat again. He pouted and clung to my shirt, until the M. le comte's prompt wore down his reluctance and he performed the necessary steps to reach him. Once in the loving arms of his father, Raoul tried to be lifted, surely aiming for more caresses and kisses, but the old musketeer had other ideas as evidenced by the fact that he turned Raoul around to face me.

"Now, go to Grimaud, Raoul," he ordered with the kindest tone I ever heard of him.

Raoul protested but no amount of whimpering made M. le comte change his mind, as he kept pouring some words of encouragement over his head until the toddler decided to obey, but I was not sure whether he did it to please his father or just to make him stop. I inquired with a glance if I was to have the boy return to him, but my master shook his head deciding that the boy had enough, so, when the kid was within my reach, I picked him up and stood up.

"That was so..." he started and opened his arms to pick up the boy, but the offended face of the child halted the acclaim. The grimace on his face was an exact copy of M. le comte's obstinate countenance. "Come here, Raoul."

Instead of lurching forward to be picked up, Raoul buried his face in my shoulder and refused to be taken. This little display of rebelliousness was accepted with a shrug: M. le comte went to retrieve his forgotten mug and sat in his chair with a sober expression. And then I found myself between two rock solid heads and I knew that neither of those two would give in. I rocked Raoul until he let go my clothes and, as soon as he did it, I placed him in M. le comte's lap. This action extracted the same surprised expression and the same stunned exclamation on both of them. I left the salon signaling to them that I refused to baby-sit for two babies.

I still could not believe how much my life had changed in one year...


End file.
